The courtyard stones, perpetually damp with the mountain's mist, offered no comfort. Qiao Yansheng’s knuckles, raw and reddened, gripped the gnarled broom handle. The coarse bristles scraped a mournful rhythm across the flagstones, kicking up dust motes that danced in the anemic light filtering through the canopy of aged cypress trees. A trio of outer disciples, their robes crisp and their laughter sharp, shouldered past him without a glance. He instinctively shrank, pressing himself against the lichen-splotched wall, his breath catching in his throat. "A-apologies," he mumbled, the word barely a whisper, swallowed by the echo of their retreating boots. He resumed his endless task, a living ghost in the periphery of the Obsidian Swallow Institute. His frame, once agile as a peregrine, was now a crooked shape bearing the ruin of ruptured channels that had stolen his future. The scar, a jagged lightning bolt across his ribs, burned with phantom pain whenever the chill seeped into his bones. A sudden, thunderous crash ripped through the morning's quiet. The grand gates, ancient wood bound with tarnished iron, splintered inward, torn from their hinges with a violent shriek. Dust and splinters exploded across the courtyard. Qiao Yansheng flinched, dropping his broom. Three imposing figures strode through the wreckage, their silks shimmering with the crest of the Bai Clan – a silver crescent moon piercing a black cloud. They were flanked by a dozen stern-faced guards, their drawn blades glinting. At the forefront, a man with a sneer etched onto his handsome face, clad in the pristine azure robes of an Inner Peak Elder’s direct disciple, surveyed the scene with disdain. This was Shen Fenglei, the rising star of the Thunderpeak Pavilion, and, by the Institute’s decree, Bai Yueli’s new fiancé. Beside him, poised and elegant despite the chaos, stood Bai Yueli herself. Her eyes, cool as mountain spring water, swept over the courtyard, pausing for a fraction of a second on Qiao Yansheng before dismissing him, her expression as unreadable as polished jade. “Where is your worthless sect master?” Shen Fenglei’s voice, a whip-crack of arrogance, cut through the silence. “The Bai Clan has come to sever ties with this withered branch of an academy. We demand the dissolution of the betrothal contract. My fiancée, Lady Bai Yueli, will not be shackled to a broken husk like Qiao Yansheng!” Qiao Yansheng felt a cold dread seep into his bones, colder than the morning mist. His name, spoken with such contempt, felt like a physical blow. He tried to speak, to defend himself, but the words caught in his throat, a familiar knot of shame and frustration. Shen Fenglei’s gaze, sharp and cruel, landed on him. A flicker of recognition, then pure mockery, danced in his eyes. “Ah, there he is. The great genius, Qiao Yansheng. Reduced to sweeping dust? How fitting. Still clinging to life, I see.” He took a step forward, his boot crunching on a splintered gate shard. “And still clinging to the idea of Lady Bai as your wife, perhaps?” Bai Yueli remained silent, her gaze fixed distantly on the broken gates, as if the scene unfolding before her was beneath her notice. The indifference, stark and absolute, was a more profound wound than any physical blow. “The engagement… it was arranged…” Qiao Yansheng managed to stammer, his voice thin and reedy. “I… I saved her life. That day, at the Whispering Viper Gorge… my inner pathways…” Shen Fenglei barked a laugh, a harsh, grating sound. “Saved her life? You destroyed your own! A worthless sacrifice for a woman far above your station. And what good are shattered channels now, boy? They make you nothing more than a glorified sweeper.” With a swift, contemptuous kick, he sent a shower of gravel skittering toward Qiao Yansheng. One struck his knee, pain shooting straight to his hip. He stumbled, falling hard onto the damp flagstones, his hands scraping raw. “Get up, you worm!” Shen Fenglei commanded, his foot pressing down on Qiao Yansheng’s shoulder, grinding him into the grit. “You disgrace this entire sect with your pathetic existence.” His foot moved, finding Qiao Yansheng’s chest, applying more pressure. Qiao Yansheng gasped, struggling for air. The phantom pain in his ribs flared, real now, sharp and debilitating. “A-I… I can’t…” he wheezed, his face pressing into the cold, damp stone. His vision swam. He saw the corroded fire-poker he used to clear the incense burner, lying discarded nearby. His hand, shaking, reached for it, grasping the cold, pitted metal. Shen Fenglei’s laughter grew louder. “Look at him, clinging to a rusty piece of scrap metal! Is that your new weapon, invalid? Perhaps you can poke dust with it.” He raised his own hand, a flash of silvery light, and a meticulously crafted dao, its hilt adorned with a gleaming Sky-Drake scale, appeared in his grip. It hummed with nascent celestial force. “Let me show you a real weapon, boy.” He aimed a casual, contemptuous thrust towards Qiao Yansheng’s face. Qiao Yansheng instinctively raised the corroded poker, a pathetic shield. The masterwork steel sliced across his forearm, a shallow cut, but enough. A bead of his blood, dark and viscous, rolled down the pitted metal of the fire-poker, seeping into a hairline crack near its base. At that precise instant, a profound chill, ancient and terrifying, erupted from the poker. The mundane iron, which had been nothing more than a tool, shuddered. A spectral, emerald green light flared, briefly illuminating the shadowed courtyard. A whisper, like dry leaves skittering across forgotten tombs, slithered into Qiao Yansheng’s mind, clear as a chime: *‘At last… blood.’* Shen Fenglei paused, a flicker of surprise in his arrogant eyes. “What in the…?” The rusted fire-poker, now glowing with an eerie, hungry light, jerked in Qiao Yansheng’s hand. He felt a surge of raw power, alien and overwhelming, course through his arm, bypassing his torn conduits as if they weren’t even there. The spectral presence, now a distinct, primeval entity, coiled within the blade. With a force that was not his own, Qiao Yansheng swung the fire-poker in a wide, desperate arc. The pitted tip, transformed into a jagged maw of dark force, slammed into the noble's gleaming weapon. There was no clash of metal, no ringing sound. Instead, the Sky-Drake armament, an artifact of minor cultivation, shivered violently. A dark, hungry vortex blossomed from the fire-poker’s tip, sucking at the ambient essence, draining the weapon's vital core. The noble took a staggering step back in horror as his prized weapon began to *wither*. The gleaming scale dulled, the silver hilt corroded, and the blade itself seemed to shrink, crumbling into glittering dust within the vortex. The dark light pulsed, then retracted, drawing the last vestiges of the consumed sword into the fire-poker. The pitted metal, though still outwardly the same, now felt infinitesimally heavier, pulsing with a faint, malevolent warmth. A minuscule thread of refined essence, pure and vibrant, shot through Qiao Yansheng’s arm, not repairing his main pathways, but subtly strengthening a few minor capillaries around his elbow. It was barely perceptible, a ghost of a sensation, but it was *something*. Shen Fenglei stared at the empty space where his sword had been, his face a mask of disbelief and rage. “My… my Sky-Drake weapon! You… you maimed wretch! What have you done?!” The young master lunged forward, his power now unbound by the loss of his steel, pure fury contorting his features. He aimed a vicious palm strike directly at Qiao Yansheng’s head. Before the blow could land, a blur of lavender silk cut across the courtyard. A figure, graceful and swift as a moon crane, interposed herself between Shen Fenglei and Qiao Yansheng. It was Mei Chulan, her senior disciple robes flowing around her, her expression one of cold, unwavering fury. Her hand, slender and firm, met Shen Fenglei’s descending palm. A soft ripple of golden pressure, far more potent than his own, emanated from her, stopping him cold. The youth stumbled back, his face paling, the rage in his eyes replaced by a flicker of fear. “Senior Sister Mei! What is the meaning of this? This wretch… he destroyed my heirloom!” Mei Chulan’s voice, usually gentle, was now edged with ice. “Enough, Master Shen. Your aggression here is unwarranted. You desecrate our grounds, abuse an outer sweeper, and then dare to demand an explanation?” Her gaze, fierce and unyielding, fixed him in place. Around them, the Bai Clan guards remained frozen, none daring to challenge the premier pupil of the sanctuary's grandmaster. The primeval damage to Qiao Yansheng’s pathways, however, remained. Mei Chulan’s timely arrival had halted the immediate violence, but the true consequences of his encounter with the cursed blade had only just begun. As Mei Chulan spoke, her voice a balm to Qiao Yansheng’s battered spirit, another whisper, colder and more insistent than before, resonated in his mind, echoing from the rusted fire-poker now clutched in his trembling hand: *‘Feed me, boy, or by the new moon, I will eat your soul instead.’*

Blood on the Rust